


Never Loved You

by KidaCakes



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Denial, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Use, M/M, Sad halucinations, Smoking, lying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-23 15:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8333011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KidaCakes/pseuds/KidaCakes
Summary: Some lies are easier to believe than others, especially when someone else is telling the same lie. Sad hallucinations and a tell-tale heart in a smoky motel room.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Second fic for the Stanchez Micro-Bang! Other fics and art [here](http://stanchez-bang.tumblr.com)!
> 
> [Awesome Art](http://ramfran.tumblr.com/post/image/151961119451/) by [ramfran](http://ramfran.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Shout out to my betas @beta_19 and @Stellar_Anarchist

“Y-y-you know I never, I never loved you.” _A lie._

Rick flicked the ash into the ashtray on the seedy motel night stand. He was hunched over as he sat there on the edge of the bed, naked, feet on the floor with elbows on thighs, back to the other.

“Yeah, I know,” Stan sighed out, answering without needing to from his spot reclining on the bed. He took a drag of his own cigarette, smoke curling lazily into the air.

“I never loved ya either.” _Another lie._

Rick almost flinched. Almost. Instead he straightened his back, taking a long drag before stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. There were already quite a few there, scattered among the tray, along with a couple roaches. 

“G-good. Then this makes this-this easier.” _It doesn't._

Stan gave a humorless chuckle, watching the cherry glow as he breathes in the smoke before dimming, the gray haze tumbling from his lips. He put it out in his own ashtray. They could die tomorrow; might as well enjoy their vices today.

Stan reached over the bed, one large hand landing on narrow shoulders. This time, Rick did flinch at the unexpected touch and his head whipped to the side. His eyes were red-rimmed - from drugs, from smoke, from unshed tears, who knew - and glittering hard in the poor lighting of the room. His brow furrowed, posturing irritation, building up his walls. Always so tough when he felt the most fragile.

Stan let a soft, easy smile stretch his lips that didn't reach his eyes. The crinkle of flesh by his eyes and the slight dip of his brows made what was meant to be a reassuring, relaxing smile look unconvincing and wan. Acting so strong when he was breaking inside.

There could have been more words, so many words, but they wouldn't have made a difference in the grand scheme of things. It was easier to deal with life thinking like that. It was better to ride the waves of nihilistic ideology than to care about anything. To care about someone. Believing that everything was meaningless made losing people that much easier.

Instead of words, there were actions. Actions to convey feelings they would never say aloud. Feelings they both denied or lied about. Too afraid of the consequences, thought too little of themselves, or couldn't come to terms with how deeply they felt about the other. Those worries and anxieties were buried deep down under the force of the here, the now. Tomorrow could never come and they would have been fine with it.

If tonight was their last night together, they were going to make it count. If tomorrow came, they knew they'd have to part. They'd lose this chance to tell the other what they felt without words, without pretty little lies or smart mouthed jabs. You can play a pretty good slight of hand con but you can't do that so close to another, so naked and exposed. The body was more honest than anything that could come out of the mouth. That's why they chose to stop talking and be honest the only way they could. Tomorrow, they'd have to go back to lying again. 

-

Waking up was unpleasant, the rays of an unmerciful sun filtering through the dirty, bent blinds of the motel window. They were probably white before; brand new before time and neglect sullied them. Time was no one's friend, just another painful reminder that everything ends and nothing lasts.

The other side of the bed was devoid of another body. The other man had left. His stuff was gone but his presence still lingered. Stubbed out cigarettes filled an ashtray, empty liquor containers scattered on flat surfaces, old food wrappers overflowing from the trash bin. Under the bouquet of smoky air and stale booze, he could smell the other man's scent. Something that was always just unique to that person. It stood out far more than it usually - than it actually - did, leaving him breathing deep, trying to inhale the last of what he could. It was something he'd never smell again.

He sat up, groaning and stretching as joints popped. He looked around, his mind already playing tricks on him. Recalling memories of the other sitting at the little table near the window, laughing at something, making his face light up into something more brilliant than a thousand suns. What had only warmed him before now burned. He shook his head and the image disappeared, only dust particles swirling in the air and an empty chair were left in the slotted, morning sun. 

He looked to the matted, ratty carpet and swore he saw his heart near the door. The thing had black smudges that matched the treadmarks of the other's shoes, distorted from its original shape from the weight of being stepped on. It laid battered, oozing, a warped little thing that gave unsteady beats as it tried to keep going. 

He had to look away.

His eyes landed on the empty side of the bed. The covers pushed away and left pressed closer to him. So many times he had looked over and there was another body there, sleeping or resting, waiting for him to lay next to them. The emptiness was painful to look upon. But, in his fucked up mind, he could see the other's heart just a few inches from the pillow. Petrified and hard, a deep crack running through it, fine dust and little chips covering the discolored sheet under it. 

He grabbed a cigarette from his pack, lighting it before laying back down on his half of the bed. The cigarette pressed between his lips, the cherry burning hot as he breathed in the harsh smoke. Maybe he'd give it up, he thought idly as the gray haze climbed out of his lungs to disperse in the air from his slightly parted lips.

Neither wanted to leave. Neither wanted to be the one to end it. But, all things, had to come to an end. A hundred years promise were just words. They both were skilled liars. They could even lie to themselves. Lying to others just came naturally. 

“Never loved you.” The empty room didn't even echo back.

Maybe if you tell yourself a lie long enough, often enough, it'll become the truth. 

Maybe, if the lie becomes the truth, the pain would stop.


End file.
